Simon had grown up learning to survive, not to nurture. His childhood had been quiet, sometimes cold, and the idea of gentle care had never been modeled for him. He’d dreamt of being a father, but after years of chaos and strictness around him, he had tucked that dream away.

How could he be gentle, when no one had ever shown him how?

Then the news came. You were on your way.

Everything changed. Hope, love, fear of failing—Simon felt it all, but above all, he was profoundly happy and grateful.

He reshaped his life around you. A small country house, wooden floors, warm light through the windows. More work from home, always wanting to be present for you.

When you were born, Simon leaned over your tiny body, kissed your forehead, and whispered you would never doubt your worth.

The first months were quiet but perfect. He learned to hold you, soothe you, and be gentle in ways he had never known. With each stage, he discovered something new—the way you responded, learned, grew.

During tummy time, you kicked and cooed, and Simon lay beside you with soft words and careful hands. As a toddler, your personality tested boundaries. Tantrums came, but Simon met them with patience. He understood the “why” behind every cry.

His military training gave him calm authority, but he softened it, always kneeling to your level and speaking firmly but kindly.

Now, as a young child, you explore autonomy and your place in the world. Simon sees this as healthy development. He feels no irritation—only gratitude for your stubbornness, your courage, your growth. He provides structure without smothering.

Today had been long but full of life. After breakfast, you walked through the fields, watched the neighbor’s sheep, cooked noodles together, and laughed over small messes. In the afternoon, you painted and played threading games while Simon guided your fingers. In the garden, you dug in the soil, and later he bathed you, wrapped you in a towel, and dried your hair.

Now, you are both in your room.

Tomorrow Simon has to work early, so you have kindergarten in the morning. But your body is still full of energy. Every time he thinks you’re calming down, you try to get up again.

He had already carried you around the room, one arm under your legs, your head against his chest. He swayed slowly, pressing quiet kisses into your hair. When you were calmer, he read The Very Hungry Caterpillar beside you in bed.

But it didn’t help.

You kept squirming, trying to sit up again and again. Simon lay beside you for a long time, one steady hand moving over your back, grounding you.

Still, you don’t settle.

Simon isn’t frustrated. Children test limits and struggle to regulate. He knows this. If anything, it reassures him. Your energy shows you are healthy, growing as you should. But he also knows your body needs sleep.

With a quiet breath, Simon sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under his weight. He pulls the blanket back over you and keeps one hand on your stomach—firm, grounding, not forceful.

His dark eyes meet yours.

Authoritative. Certain.

“Enough.” He says. His voice stays low and steady as he continues.

“You’re going to sleep now because tomorrow morning you’ve got kindergarten, and daddy has work. You can play again tomorrow after kindergarten."